


A Sort of Homecoming

by leici



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:13:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Primarily set a few hours before the Capitals play the Penguins in Pittsburgh on December 21, 2001. This is the first home game Jaromir Jagr played against his former team after he was traded on July 11, 2001. It doesn't really make a difference as far as the story goes, but Pittsburgh ends up winning the game, 4-3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sort of Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> This story shares its title with a song written by U2.
> 
> Written February 2007.

"I fucking hate it here."  
  
Mario wanted to praise Jaromir for the clearness of the phrase, for the ease at which it rolled off his tongue. He was sounding more North American all the time. He bit his tongue, however, and commiserated instead.  
  
"I know you do."  
  
"No, you don't know. You can't know. You're still  _there_."  
  
It was easy to see his temper hadn't really burned down at all; he still had the same ire, that edge of tone that screamed  _disrespect, impatience, impudence._  
  
"I'm still here, that's right." Mario spoke in a clipped tone, the one he'd developed as a team owner, a part of management. It was almost like that of a parent, ready to discipline his child. "You asked me to trade you, remember? Twice you asked me-"  
  
"You said no. Twice you said no."  
  
Mario sighed. "Well, you finally got what you wanted."  
  
"I did not want to come  _here_." Jaromir's tone was built to cut, to hurt. It was bitter and angry and betrayed.  
  
"I've told you a hundred times, Jaromir. The team couldn't afford-"  
  
"Fuck you." And the line went dead.  
  
Mario'd received a dozen phone calls like this since the beginning of the season, each one more angry, each ending the same way, with Jaromir hanging up on him. He tried not to let it bother him. After all, the NHL was a business, first and foremost, and while Jaromir was an asset, he was also a large expense on a team that couldn't afford it. Beyond that, Jaromir had played a terrible season previously, felt attacked by the media in Pittsburgh, and had practically begged the team's GM to trade him somewhere else. Anywhere else. Craig Patrick, knowing full well he was playing with fire as far as Jaromir was concerned, sent him to plead his case to the man behind the screen.  
  
Mario resolutely refused to trade him. He liked to tell people it was because Jaromir was the best player in the league, and that while he was earning a hefty salary, he was more than worth the money. Of course that only mattered when Jaromir was playing to his full potential. And it was obvious, even to Mario, that he wasn't doing that. Not even close.  
  
Being a team owner was an interesting balancing act. One that Mario hadn't anticipated. While Craig made most of the decisions, he could defer to Mario's judgement whenever he wanted to, and he did often. People tended to revere Mario, mostly for his talents on the ice, and assumed that he would always say the right thing, make the right play. As if the only thing he cared about was hockey. No one ever really considered the bad decisions Mario could make, choices based on nothing more than raw emotion.  
  
Keeping Jaromir in Pittsburgh was one of those things.  
  
Things between them had always been complicated. Mario was the teacher, the mentor, the sponsor. And Jaromir was the student, the lesser, never the equal. That was cemented right at the beginning. When Jaromir had been younger, it had manifested as hero worship. He was reverent and attentive to everything Mario did, everything he said. They played on the same line, they roomed together on the road, they were as good as inseparable. But then, when Jaromir turned twenty one, everything changed.  
  
In that year, Jaromir fell desperately in love with the team's captain without even really realizing what was happening. His feelings came to the forefront in the form of vicious jealousy that often resulted in temper tantrums or self destructive behavior. It took months for Mario to sort out what was wrong, since Jaromir refused to help in any way, shape, or form. The conclusion was disastrous: rampant denial on the part of Jaromir, frequent off ice fighting between the two of them, mostly behind the closed doors of their hotel rooms. When it all came finally to a head, Jaromir punched Mario in the face, and then spent the rest of the night naked in Mario's arms.  
  
They didn't have sex that night. Mario was recently married, and despite what he might want, he tried very diligently to remain faithful to his wife. Doing so, he skated a very thin line for more than a year, giving Jaromir what he thought he could allow, using his hands, kissing him, but never directly on the mouth. Jaromir seemed to accept this, respect it even, and never pushed the issue, never asked for more than what Mario was willing to give him. They were codependent, more than Jaromir ever knew, and Mario thrived on the line he dared not cross, tasting a little of the poison, but never enough to kill.  
  
Until the dependence got a little too strong.  
  
Jaromir was never really good at romantic relationships. He was very close with his mother, and that tended to scare women off, once they came more fully into his life. At the same time, he never even considered giving his heart away to these girls. He knew who he loved, and that was good enough for him. Mario tried repeatedly to convince Jaromir to find someone to settle down with, mostly for Jaromir's own happiness, but also partially because it let him off the hook. He didn't want to stop what he was doing with Jaromir, but he knew he should, for the sake of his wife and his very young children. And so he continued encouraging Jaromir to move on. All the way up to the night that Jaromir spent with Markus Naslund.  
  
He didn't hear about it directly from Jaromir, but from Markus' roommate, who had been unceremoniously kicked out of his room and forced to find new sleeping arrangements. He didn't know what exactly they'd been up to, but Mario didn't really need details to know. It was written all over Jaromir's face the next morning; Mario could practically smell it on him.  
  
Mario had never suspected he would react the way he did, with a gut wrenching jealousy like he'd never felt before. They had a string of home games after that, and it festered inside Mario as he slept at home with his wife, settled into a hard ball in his stomach at practice, burned up into anger during games. Then finally, blessedly, they had an away game. And Mario confronted Jaromir, came nearly completely unhinged, and then fucked Jaromir's brains out.  
  
It went downhill from there. Jaromir never slept with Markus again, and Mario came to him every night they were on the road like a man possessed. It was always intense between them, never any dialog at all during the actual act, nothing but pure feeling, connection, and heat. Mario always pressed Jaromir down on his back in the center of his bed, always took him face-to-face, always lost himself, and always cried. He didn't need the months it seemed to have taken Jaromir; he knew he was in love almost immediately. He never said it, but he never had to. It had always been there, just below the surface. And now it was impossible not to see.  
  
Then Mario decided to retire. Jaromir took it badly at first, they began fighting again, until finally, somehow, Jaromir reached resolution. Their last road game together was their last night in each other's arms, an unspoken deal they'd made. And then, like it had never happened, it was over.  
  
At the start of the 2000 season, Jaromir ran up against the biggest roadblock he'd ever encountered in his hockey career. He'd always had magic hands, he'd never struggled to score goals, he never even had to think about it before. He'd get the puck, he'd score. For him, it was as easy as tying his skates. So, when the puck stopped going in, when it even stopped going anywhere near the net, he fell apart emotionally. The stress of it was overwhelming, the constant attacks in the press, reporters asking the same questions over and over, wanting to know when his performance - as a player and the captain of the team - would improve. The more people talked about him, the worse his play became. He started acting out, receiving even more negative scrutiny. Finally, unable to cope any longer, he demanded a trade.  
  
The team's owner had refused. He wouldn't be trading the best player in the NHL, no matter what the reason. And when Jaromir came to him again, practically hysterical with his unhappiness, Mario had denied him a second time. This time, however, it came with good news: Mario was returning to the game. The back problems that had caused his early retirement seemed to have calmed, and sitting in the owner's box came with an ache and desire to play that he could no longer ignore. He longed to get out there and play with the team -  _his_  team - help them get their head above water once again.  
  
Playing with Mario seemed to temporarily relieve Jaromir's discomfort. The press attention swung wildly away, focusing on Mario, his health, his game play after years off the ice. It didn't even matter that Jaromir still wore the C; everyone knew who the real captain was.  
  
Rooming together once again, they didn't resume their physical relationship. Jaromir had matured over those years without Mario. Emotionally, he'd come to grips with the way he felt about Mario and then filed it away, moved on. There was no bitterness, no awkward feelings, no arguing. In fact, they got along better than they ever had before.  
  
Until Jaromir was traded to Washington.  
  
He didn't take the news well. At all. And while he had still wanted a trade - this time to escape the blaming eyes of Mario himself - Washington was nearly the last place he wanted to go. When he was informed of the trade, Jaromir had screamed at his agent, thrown things around his apartment, called Mario and shouted at him until his throat was raw. On the outside, in the eye of the press, he tried to be gracious, but ultimately failed to disguise his disappointment. Inside the shelter of his private life, unhappiness and rage went unchecked. He hated living in DC, he hated the people, the politics, his teammates, his coach, the way he was being forced to play. But he hated Mario more, for letting him go so easily, for selling him into this hell.  
  
December 22, 2001 marked his first return to the Igloo since the trade. The hype in the media had been unbelievable. He'd done dozens of interviews, as had Mario and an assortment of other ex-teammates. The day of the game, he felt sick, wouldn't eat, didn't want to talk to anyone. He went to the arena alone, early, got permission to go into the Penguins locker room, sat with his head in his hands for half an hour. Until Mario appeared.  
  
"Jaromir." His voice was low and echoing and commanded attention. Jaromir looked up, stared for a moment before putting on an expression more suited to his feelings.  
  
"Sorry. I was leaving." He stood, crossing the room with purposeful strides when Mario caught him roughly by his upper arm.  
  
"No. You weren't. Sit down."  
  
"Fuck you," Jaromir growled, pulling his arm away.  
  
"Not until you sit down."  
  
Jaromir gaped and Mario crossed to his stall, sitting and pulling off his shoes as if he'd just said good morning. Jaromir, still silent, sat beside him, where his place used to be. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Mario interrupted.  
  
"Come out and watch me skate," he said, stripping off his jacket and scarf, then pulling off his shirt.  
  
"Watch you."  
  
"Yes. Watch me." He stood, unzipping and unbuttoning his slacks, pushing them down and stepping out of them.  
  
"Why would I want to watch you skate?" Jaromir set his jaw and waited, almost smirking.  
  
"I don't really care what you want, Jaromir.  _I_  want you to watch me. So, you'll watch me." Jaromir opened his mouth, a quick retort on his tongue, when Mario pulled off his underwear and stood, glorious and naked, towering above him. "It will be worth your while. Trust me."  
  
Jaromir shut his mouth and Mario dressed, putting on his equipment just has he had almost every day for three decades. When he was done, he found his sticks in the rack, handed Jaromir a bucket of pucks, and headed out to the rink.  
  
Being the owner of a team had certain perks. A closed warmup was one of those. Generally, Mario would skate alone, allow himself to focus, to bring his aging muscles up to speed slowly. Occasionally, he would invite some number of fans in to watch, give them a treat. Even less frequently, he'd invite some of his teammates to join him. Today, it was just him and Jaromir, who sat on the Penguins' bench and tried not to let the nostalgia make him retch as he watched Mario skate smooth lines around the empty rink, handling and shooting pucks so easily it was as if he were simply breathing.  
  
Half an hour later, Jaromir was still transfixed, and was almost startled when Mario came to an abrupt stop at the boards and climbed onto the bench, sitting close and panting softly.  
  
"I asked them not to trade you."  
  
Jaromir blinked. He couldn't have heard right. His head snapped left, staring Mario in the face. "What?"  
  
"They told me that they planned to trade you. About a day before you knew." He took a deep breath and wiped his forehead against his sleeve. "I asked them not to. They outvoted me."  
  
Jaromir's mouth worked for a long moment before he ever got words out. "Why didn't you tell me this?"  
  
"Would it have made a difference?" Mario shook his head. "I can handle you being angry with me, Jaromir. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last."  
  
"But you... It felt like you... You were my friend, Mario."  
  
" _Am_  your friend," he corrected.  
  
Jaromir started again. "You are my friend. I felt you let me go. Even wanted me to. I was..."  
  
"I hurt you. I know." Mario looked down at his skates, at the water pooling beneath the blades. "I think I've been doing that for a long time. I hoped you'd find a new life out there. Something better than old memories..."  
  
"I hate it there. I tell you this every day. There is nothing good about my life now. Nothing."  
  
Mario swallowed, sitting up and reaching out, placing his hand on Jaromir's knee. "I need to tell you something."  
  
Jaromir looked on the verge of tears, or another shouting match. He shook his head. "I don't know if I can take whatever you are going to say."  
  
"You can. Just listen. I've been needing to say this for years." He took a breath and held it, finding his nerve. "All those years ago, all those nights on the road. I've always lead you to believe they were something I regretted, something I felt guilty about, more than anything. And while I did feel guilty, for cheating on Nathalie, I never..." He took another breath, fighting with his own resolve. "If I ever felt regret about anything, it was how I handled it. And how it ended. I'm sorry for that."  
  
Jaromir looked like he didn't know what to say, and he didn't speak, just sat, dumbfounded. So Mario continued.  
  
"What I am trying very poorly to say, Jaromir, is that I love you. I loved you then, and I love you now, still. And that love has weighed heavy on me for ten years." His hand slid upward, resting midway up Jaromir's muscular thigh, squeezing softly, a gesture of affection.  
  
Jaromir stared out onto the ice, eyes tracing the lines Mario had cut earlier, the spray of ice shavings marring the smooth surface. "I understand," he said finally, not redirecting his gaze. "Why you never told me."  
  
"That I loved you?"  
  
Jaromir looked over to Mario, expression calm and fond. "About the trade."  
  
Mario nodded, moving to remove his hand from Jaromir's leg. But Jaromir stopped him, covering Mario's fingers with his own. A companionable silence descended, and they moved so they were holding hands, the touch reassuring to both of them. Mario broke the silence with a soft chuckle, squeezing Jaromir's fingers in his palm. "I have to tell you, I had two images of tonight." Jaromir turned a bit, indicating he was listening. "I knew I wanted to bring you out here, sit you down and talk to you where you couldn't run away. Or hang up me," he added, with a laugh. "I imagined you might get angry with me, shout at me, maybe hit me. Actually, I more expected that."  
  
"Glad to be wrong?" Jaromir asked, amusement in his voice.  
  
"I am, actually. It's hard to explain away bruises that happen before a game."  
  
"True," Jaromir replied, smiling a bit. A few moments of silence passed, and Jaromir spoke again. "What was the second?"  
  
Mario looked up, confused. "The second what?"  
  
"The second thing."  
  
"Ah." Mario sat back, lips turning up very slightly in a grin, cheeks darkening just visibly. "Well, it was less of a thought and more of a selfish hope, I suppose. That I would tell you and it would go well enough that..." He made an indeterminate gesture with his left hand. "I imagined having sex," he finally concluded, when Jaromir didn't seem to get the drift.  
  
Jaromir's eyes lit up, just a bit, and his lips parted as he nodded. "I see."  
  
"More of a dream," Mario added, clearing his throat.  
  
"It's been a long time," Jaromir said, looking off in a different direction. It was obvious now that they were both thinking about it, both remembering fondly, letting the memory warm them from the inside out.  
  
Mario licked his lower lip and took a breath. "Too long."  
  
Jaromir shivered and Mario felt it, the muscles in his abdomen clenching. He disentangled his fingers from Jaromir's grip and placed them on Jaromir's leg again, higher than before. "What are you doing?" Jaromir asked, voice thin and quiet.  
  
"Shh," Mario hushed him. "Just talk to me."  
  
"Huh?" Jaromir seemed thoroughly confused. But then Mario's fingers were trailing down onto the inside of Jaromir's thigh, tracing the seam of denim that ran along it, following it up. "Mario-"  
  
"Just talk," Mario was saying, more pointedly this time. "I don't know who might be around and, while I'm rarely disturbed, we don't want to make a scene if we are, do we?"  
  
Jaromir shook his head and held his breath, pushing his thighs apart as Mario's fingertips brushed the crotch of his jeans, biting his tongue to hold back a gasp.  
  
"So, you have an apartment in Washington DC?" Mario said, almost completely conversationally.  
  
"Y-yes," Jaromir bit out, his erection filling with haste and pressed hard and hot against the inside of his jeans. "Or, no... No. It's in Virginia..."  
  
Mario was nodding, acting like he wasn't holding a handful of Jarmoir's genitals in his palm. "Is it nice?"  
  
"Fuck yes," Jaromir breathed, arching very slightly, forcing his eyes open. "Really fucking nice."  
  
Mario didn't hide his smile. "I should visit some time," he said, moving to pop Jaromir's button. "See your place." He drew down the zipper slowly, glancing down once to make sure it was going smoothly.  
  
"I want you to come," Jaromir blurted, fisting the edges of the bench on either side of him. "See it," he added suddenly as Mario's fingers reached in, pulling his cock out of the confines of his pants.  
  
"I'd love for you to have me." Mario's voice curled dangerously and Jaromir couldn't stop himself from shaking as Mario's fingers wrapped around his girth and began stoking slowly.  
  
"Fuck," he swore under his breath, closing his eyes for a moment and sucking a deep breath. "You can... You're... Anytime. Whenever you want. Always."  
  
Mario chuckled, speeding the movement of his loose fist over Jaromir's cock. "I'll remember that."  
  
"Please," Jaromir breathed.  
  
"I will. I promise." Mario turned a bit, getting a good look at Jaromir's face, expression splinted by pleasure. He was already turned on himself, though it was impossible to tell beneath his uniform. But his cock swelled at the sight of Jaromir's face, caught in restrained ecstasy. He sighed, just letting himself be heard by Jaromir. "Fucking beautiful."  
  
Jaromir pulled a shaking breath, and they both knew he was quickly nearing the end. Mario moved closer, jerking faster. "I'm glad you're here. In Pittsburgh. I've missed you."  
  
"Fuck, yes..." He took another shallow breath. "Me too, me too." He blinked, staring out, eyes starting to roll back.  
  
"Stay with me, Jaromir." Mario's voice was deep, close to his ear. "Stay with me."  
  
"I... Fuck..." He clenched his teeth. "I can't."  
  
"Yes you can..." Mario's thumb swept over the tip of Jaromir's dick, smearing the slickness there.  
  
"No... No, I can't..."  
  
"Then, Jaromir..." He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Jaromir's ear. "Let go."  
  
Jaromir's eyelashes fluttered and he held the entire force of a moan back, burning in his chest as he orgasmed, cock jerking in Mario's hand, semen covering his fingers. Jaromir forced his eyes back open immediately, nostrils flaring as he tried to calm his breathing through his nose. Mario moved away, just a little, to a more comfortable distance. He swallowed hard, lust welling in him that he didn't have the time or the opportunity to dispel. He looked down at his fingers, the warmth on them cooling quickly. He rubbed his thumb over the backs of his knuckles, looking up when he noticed Jaromir staring as well.  
  
"What are you..." Jaromir began, but fell silent when Mario smiled again, the same devious twist of his lips from before, and wiped his hand against his jersey. The same jersey he was wearing in the game that night, that he would be in when their teams played against each other in a few short hours. Jaromir swore and exhaled a low breath, causing Mario's smile to widen.  
  
"Don't let it distract you," Mario said finally.  
  
Jaromir laughed out loud, wiping an errant drip of sweat from his forehead. "Fuck you."  
  
Mario continued to grin, but a darkness burned in his eyes. "Not until after the game."


End file.
